Changes
by MatchPlay
Summary: Post Reichenbach.  John loved Sherlock, but that didn't mean he was gay.   The author isn't good with hetero, so this is what you get.    Transgender fic


**Changes**

* * *

><p>John was a ghost these days, since the fall.<p>

He missed Sherlock, more than he should, considering they were just flatmates and maybe-friends.

It was ironic, really, falling in love with your flatmate when you're not gay.

Around Sherlock, John's sexuality was always questioned by others; but just because one bloke loves another bloke, doesn't mean he'll get in the sack with him anytime soon. John was just straight and that was it.

But John knew, somewhere deep down, that Sherlock was alive and John just wasn't looking hard enough for the clues he was sure to have left him. He was brilliant (and frustrating) like that, thinking of his hints as obvious when they're really invisible to the mortal eye.

John would wait as long as he could, but he didn't know how long his heart could last.

* * *

><p>"How did you...?" The question was left hanging, because, really, who talks to inanimate objects?<p>

The tea that should have been steeping was now gone, cup and all. John is certain he left it there, especially so because it was a new brand and he would remember if he had tried it.

Sighing, he wondered if was going bonkers from the grief as he got out another cup and looked for the package of new tea. Where had it gone?

John stared at the spot on the counter where it belonged. Clearly he'd gone mad.

Fine, old tea it is then.

His phone beeped, signalling a new text message from a blocked number.

_You wouldn't have liked it anyway._

It sounded like Sherlock, but there was no telltale "SH" at the end, so it may have been Mycroft meddling for whatever reason. John's learned to not bother questioning these things when it comes to the Holmes family.

He sips at his tea, trying to calm down. He can't get his hopes up yet. Not ever. What if he did and Sherlock never came? His phone chirped again.

_Wrong as usual, John. Really, after so long one would think you'd know. You were always the one who knew me best, after all._

Soon followed by another:

_Though I may look different, rest assured I am the same person as I once was._

How very cryptic.

There was a knock at the door, and John shouted a quick "Got it!" to Mrs. Hudson before she could feel obliged to answer it.

John looked through the peephole, only to find a woman at the door. She was very beautiful, in her mid thirties and with dark waves barely long enough to frame her lovely cheekbones.

Something in John told him something was wrong. Was this woman the person who texted him? But they had said he knew them, so it couldn't be.

Well, he'd stalled long enough, time to open the door.

She gave John no time to greet her, instead shoving past him and into the flat. "I'm Samantha. And I know you're John Watson, so don't bother telling me." Her eyes bore through him, seeing all.

"Uh... Hello. How do you know me, might I ask?"

"You'll remember soon enough. Though I won't be giving any hints."

"I didn't have a shag with you at the university, did I? You don't have my son hiding behind you?"

"No, no child. That would make this meeting all very dull. Come _on_, John. I know you can solve this one."

John's heart skipped a beat. That sounded exactly like... But it couldn't be, Sherlock never wore disguises this well. Only well enough to fool even Lestrade, but never John; John knew Sherlock too well.

"Must I spell it out? How did we ever—? No, I won't offer any hints. You are the only one in the world that should know who I am. You always could tell before."

She was growing desperate, giving away information despite trying to make John solve this case for himself. But she _needed_ him to know who she was.

Hope swelled in John's chest. No. No. It can't be. And if he were wrong the world may just crumble and let the sky fall. It can't—

"Sherlock." It was barely a whisper, but her eyes shone at the name.

"Yes! Yes, John!" she exclaimed, whispering only a bit louder than he was. She grabbed his upper arms, overwhelmed by the foreign emotion. "Don't you see—"

"You went and left m- everything, made everyone believe you were _dead _and now you return to the flat, without a 'I'm sorry, John,' or even 'I brought the milk, John' but instead a 'You're going to solve this brain teaser, John, and by the way, I've had surgery to cover me up!'"

Her eyes grew suddenly tired, and closed. She didn't need this. She's fresh from the hospital's rehabilitation centre, Mycroft-prescribed so Sherlock could grow used to being Samantha, the hormones too new even after these three years.

"Why did you do it? A case?"

Even with the stress of finally seeing John up close for the first time in too long, Samantha can tell John isn't mad at the surgery, but rather Sherlock's tendency to make rash decisions just for a case.

"Mummy could block even Mycroft's influence, when I was an adolescent. I'd figured it was too late to get the surgery, after that."

"And now with Moriarty's traps, it's perfect..."

"I knew you'd get it eventually, John."

"Well, come in proper then, your room's the same as before."

Samantha smiled.

* * *

><p>The door slammed closed due to wind rather than anger. John was home, then, and with his hands full. What did he get other than milk?<p>

Samantha was up in an instant, trailing behind John but not bothering to offer help.

John had one hand drawn up to his chest, either hurt or holding something out of her line of vision. The other was holding the predictable grocer's bag of milk.

"What's with your hand, John?"

He jumped, letting the milk fall and fumbling to catch whatever was in the other hand. "Samantha! You just don't sneak up on people!"

"What is it?" She stared at him, pacing about to get a better angle to see it.

John kept it hidden in his jacket, frustrating Samantha to no ends. He put away the milk before speaking.

"Oh, have it then." He handed her a human heart, still warm from a body.

Her eyes widened with shock and happiness before looking at John with confusion. "How? Why?"

"Mycroft's been very... helpful since... It was easy with him on my side."

"Why?" she repeated.

"You're the great consulting detective, you figure it out." John fled her gaze to make tea.

"So very sentimental," she scoffed. John could feel his heart falter a bit.

"Thank you," she whispered, suddenly next to John, and kissed his cheek.


End file.
